


Restraint

by ElectraRhodes



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Missing Scenes, Much more explicit in chapter 2, Non Linear Narrative, Sex, Tie Porn, Universe Alternative, Unreliable narrator?, internal motivations, seasons 1-3, startlingly close to canon, the ties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 08:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11310069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes
Summary: Will Graham is a man utterly immersed in the world. Of it and out of it. All sense and thought and feeling.It's a relief to meet someone else who understands. Who is also a killer. Who also loves beautiful things. And who knows that death is not always a punishment but a cure.Two chapters.





	Restraint

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of people had a lot of thoughts about tie porn on tumblr. (A lot. People and thoughts. And *flails*.) 
> 
> Good.
> 
> I'm writing two stories. This is chapter 1 of the first one. Chapter 2 will be up this week and I'll write the other one next weekend.

Will leans back in the seat and lets the music thrill him. It rides his veins, through all the major arteries, corruscades around his heart, keeps him alive, with every vibrant beat. He keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't need the rest of it. Just the submersion into the music of the spheres, the utter infinity of thought, there at his fingertips. He breathes.

When the last note rips away from the soprano’s mouth they're all on the feet applauding. Will keeps his seat and his eyes closed. Not because he doesn't appreciate what she's done, it is more that she's simply a vehicle by which the god arrives. A human avatar or oracle of the sublime. Instead he lets his heart settle to the new inflections of sound, the punctuations in the air. A sound of ripping sheets, small thunder. And then voices, the thronging herd surging like a minor tide. He sighs.

When he opens his eyes and returns to what passes for him as normal people are pushing through the aisles hoping for a different kind of drinking in and pleasure for the senses. He takes his time. All the time. His grasp of time varies like the rest of the common herd. Sometimes it stretches and twists and gets away from him. Sometimes it's gone too fast too hot too much too soon.

In the large and echoey foyer and bar there are little flocks of plumaged birds. Unlike the real thing here the men are all drab black tie and formal gear and the women are Iris come land in gold. It's an inverse of the natural world as so much of human gettings are. When he pries his way to the bar he orders just a couple of fingers of scotch. They have some decent smoky ones here, and he's sufficiently well known they give him something good not something pale and improved by ice. He'd rather have the fire. He has the fire. He is it.

He finds a seat on the edge of the room and holds the drink in his mouth letting it flood his taste buds. Waterfall over them. It's a good drink. All the better for the amazing music that preceded it. He holds that in his mouth too. Sometimes there's just too much of any one thing and it blocks out all the others. Expels them. Right now? Everything is a fine balance and he is on the fair side of the tipping point.

He lets himself ride the local conversations, laughter, shrill piping, deep rumbling, trills, percussion and staccato beats. Hears the lift and timbre, cadence and flow. Hears the stumbles, the grace, the stutter and the pause. Lets them all dance too. He hears the odd note ticking, like a sore spot on a tongue that finds the rough of an unkind tooth. Catching. A little flare of pain. It catches again. And Will recognises a further descent he's passing through back into the world.

When he opens his eyes again he's more aware of those near by and there's a certain kind of pleased inevitability he notices when he realises that one of the little flocks roosting nearby contains at least one person that he knows. Perhaps knows is yet too strong a word? And they have more of the knowing, a one way street he's not quite happy with but not too irritated by. Yet. Or was and has come back down from. Maybe.

He catches the moment when Hannibal spots him. A tiny pause. A thread of something. Thrumming again. 

“Will? I had no idea this was your kind of enjoyment? Is it?”

“Hello Hannibal. Would you like another drink, yours is empty and mine is as good as?”

He holds up his glass which is holding only the memory of a long banked blaze. Hannibal takes the seat beside Will and laughs, still giddy on his own pleasure and the particular enjoyment of suffering that's been bestowed on him so far this night. Oh Franklyn. Oh glowering Mr Budge. And now Will Graham. What a threnody of delight. 

“Thank you. The fizz they're serving will do. I don't want it to overlay the memory of the music too soon”

Will looks back at him and his face keeps moving. They often seem fair opposites, where Hannibal is still Will is twitchy. Where Hannibal is loud Will is withdrawn. Where Will is all outdoors and country, Hannibal is all indoors and town. It's a simplistic assessment. And Hannibal is beginning to luxuriate in the complexity that is Will Graham’s taste.

When Will returns with the drinks he hands the glass over and his fingertips brush Hannibal's just very slightly. For Hannibal it's like a burn and he's not so gauche he drops it but he notices. The sting of it. Where there's absence first and it's only later that the pain comes rushing in to fill the space now eaten away. It feels, real. Not so many things feel real to Hannibal.

Will is watching him steadily, but offers no comment or remarks. Hannibal doing what he does steps in to shape the silence,

“Is it an enjoyment?”

“I come quite often. Here. DC. New York occasionally. It just depends who's singing, or what, or playing, and what. I think that probably counts as enjoyment.”

“I haven't seen you before”

There's no answer to that really, and Will simply raises a sardonic eyebrow. Hannibal grins briefly, caught out in a small throwaway remark.

“I say that only because I usually notice my surroundings and those in it.”

“In that case, I've probably not done enough to either excite your attention for good, or more likely for ill. I keep myself to myself here”

“Not just here I'd venture”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained?”

“What's to gain Will?”

“Attention maybe. Noticement. Approval or opprobrium”

“Is that why people venture forth?”

“Still nothing ventured, nothing gained? I un-venture forth. I'm not anticipating any gain.”

“Except? Or else, why come out at all?”

“I thought you'd never ask”

Hannibal blinks. There are all kind of possibilities in those few words. Invitation? Warning? Observation?

“What would your experience of gain be like? Describe it for me?”

“Are we in session now Doctor? Or is this a friendly conversation?”

“A conversation between friends can be therapeutic in intent or outworking without it being therapy”

Will smiles a little and takes a mouthful of his drink. He lets it roll around his tongue. Hannibal watches him enjoy it.

“Would you let me cook for you?”

“Changing your mind about my tastes Doctor?”

“Forming a more complex understanding”

Will looks at him and lets his eyes walk down Hannibal's seated body, the black tie and studded shirt front, the satin lapels, the flat front pants down to dark charcoal socks and black oxfords. He runs his eyes back up, a different speed, lets his eyes catch on Hannibal's watch, a cufflink just visible at a cuff. The way the seams fit well at the shoulder. Hannibal watches Will looking at him. Up past his throat and over his mouth and skirting his eyes and sweeping across the neat but softened hair. Back to his throat behind the bow tie appropriate for events such as this.

“An understanding of more layers?”

“A more layered understanding of the complexity”

Will huffs a small laugh,

“Touché. I'd enjoy you… cooking for me. Thank you”

Neither of them are unaware of the small pause. And Will drinks the rest of his scotch with the absence of the smile that Hannibal lets play around his face.

………………..

“I kissed Alana Bloom”

Hannibal pauses. This is not entirely what he'd been expecting. Not now. Not when.

“I thought I'd come and tell you”

“And now you have?”

“She's very kissable. I've thought about kissing her since I met her”

“Will?”

“Have you kissed her?”

“Alana? No. There was the possibility of an affair once. But no.”

“Your choice or her’s?”

“Both I believe.”

“Good”

…………………..

“When we first met you wore some very neutral clothes. Beige. Camel. Brown. You looked.. like you were endeavouring to fit into a very mundane tundra half burnt out.”

“Oh yes?”

“You're different now. I think you're peacocking”

“To attract attention?”

“To consolidate it”

“And whose attention would that be?”

Will looks up from the island where he is chopping something green and fine.

“Very funny Hannibal”

Hannibal smiles at the meat he is carefully cubing and seasoning. 

“I think you like it.”

“You know lots of things I like”

Hannibal is outright grinning now, he tries not to laugh. When he sees that Will is also trying not to laugh he gives in to it. 

…………………

In Wolf Trap Will drops himself down on to the floor and lets the dogs swarm him. A happy tide of furryness, warm breath, the occasional spike of a claw scrabbling for purchase. And nothing else to occupy his mind. He lets himself just feel the warmth and hair and wet and weights. Family? Might be an ill fitting suit but it's not one he has to wear. These here are a choice and not an accident of fate. He has a heart spilling over and these dogs will take everything he has to give and more. He lets himself revel in these well fitted clothes.

A little later he walks around the house. The drawer of the dresser just slightly different to the way he left it. A mark in the dust on the piano. A knot added to a lure. The tip smeared with something rust. Blood then. And the dogs all fed. And happy. Blood.

In the upstairs rooms he sees that one closet door has sprung open. It does that unless you know the trick of latching it. Hannibal doesn't know the trick. 

Yet. 

Will smiles to himself and opens it wider. Looks inside. Considers what Hannibal might have thought about the contents.

He returns downstairs the smile rambling round his face, he opens his cell,

>Thank you for feeding them<

>A pleasure Will<

>I hope you found some nourishment in it too<

>It offered promise of fulfilment<

>Certainly some kind of fill. Or spill.<

>do you need containing Will?<

>both have their opportunities<

>will you come to dinner then?<

…………………

“So, you drove all this way to give me a very nice bottle of wine and not to come to dinner?”

“I think you mean ‘thank you for the wine Will”

“I did. I do. I apologise. But you're not coming to dinner?”

“I don't think I'd be very good company”

“I disagree”

“I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper”

Hannibal looks at him and wants to smile but can't quite bring himself to. He'd hoped. He hopes. 

“Tell me about the closet Will”

“In the upstairs room?”

“Don't toy with me. Please”

“Alright. I won't. Though you like to play with me some, wind me up, watch me go?”

Hannibal nods, a rare moment of unquenched appetite surging through him.

“I suppose that's fair”

“The closet. It's for you. A gift of sorts”

“For me? Or for us?”

“For you, for me, and for us. If you'd like?”

“At the risk of being dull and repetitive you know lots of things I like”

Will laughs,

“I'll stay for dinner. It was a small tease, and an effective one” he smirks, “I brought a suit with me. I left it in the hallway. Can I use the guest bath?”

“Not the master?”

“I'll use him later”

Hannibal wonders how quickly he can manage a multi-course dinner for fourteen without appearing rude. Will pops a head back round the door. Ignores the hired in staff,

“The longer the foreplay the greater the reward”

For the first time ever Hannibal throws a dishcloth at someone. All he hears is Will’s retreating laugh.

………………….

The dinner is a full fronted assault. Everything Hannibal has in his armoury is thrown at Will. The conversation and slurred sussurations flow around him it's the food he pays attention to. Even some lazy flirting from Alana is ignorable. Even some lazy flirting from Alana to Hannibal is ignorable. And Hannibal debates whether to play to it and decides that might be a game for another day. Not when Will is currently almost inhaling every taste and feel and scent. When he is all mouth and swallow. Hannibal can hardly watch him, but cannot look away.

Will lets each new arrival claim its place, enjoy its dance across his tongue. He sees the colours of each element of taste. Lets them play. Lets them sing. Lets them haunt him.

Hannibal is good at sharing certain things that have deep and impenetrable meaning to him. Deep and impenetrable that is until Will. Will is all penetrability and Hannibal feels constantly exposed by him. To him.

He's the slowest at finishing each course. Even though he's the one raving the least and barely corresponding with words with those around him. But Hannibal can hear him. Like a desperate seeking shout. Close to an ecstasy chasing around his loins. With every swallow Hannibal sees all the appetites Will feels. He wants to feed them all. He wants to let Will gorge.

Towards the end when all the heady mix of sense and science leaves everyone full and magicked Hannibal gradually releases everyone back into the wild. Alana lingers for a while, over another drink. Eventually Will only helps her escape by revealing he's not going anywhere. That there's a bed upstairs with his name on it. Late night driving? What with the drink and stress. Not a happy recipe. She can only approve and can't decide who her late night farewell lingers on.

When she's gone and Hannibal has closed the front door behind her he comes back into the dining room.

“You mentioned something about a reward”

Will stands and moves around the table closer to him,

“You think we're done with foreplay then?”

……………….

If Will takes him this close to orgasm again and then pulls back he might just kill him now and to hell with all the sweet pain of the chase. He pants when Will whispers in his ear,

“You're begging Hannibal. I know it's Lithuanian. I looked it up. You still have words. Back to basics. I want you only to feel not to think about what you feel. I can see what you're dealing out behind your eyes. I need you raw”

Hannibal begins to sob.

Will whispers again,

“Not yet.”

…………………….

“Did you just smell me”

“Hard to avoid. I should introduce you to a finer aftershave”

“I keep getting it for Christmas”

“Would you wear a different one for me”

“From you and for you?”

Hannibal nods, Will smiles, a small thing back,

“I would do most things from or for you. You know that”

“In this too?”

Oh Hannibal. Don't you understand?

………………….

Will calculates his odds. So far the madness has only partly run the race and has not won. It's dangerous to let it linger further. If he lets it go too much he might not come back from it. And he is almost there. He considers the taste of Hannibal on his tongue, the feel of him fucking hard, the lost noise he makes when Will withholds and then urges forwards, the sight of him done up and then un done. The scent of him closing in on victory.

Hannibal thinks he's winning. Thinks he knows the game. So far Hannibal thinks it's at worst a tie. But Will isn't only in another league he's in a different set of rules and play. He loves the darkness. It lets everything else in. When Garrett Jacob Hobbs had begged him “see” he opened up the path he could beckon Hannibal towards. Saw golden apples he could offer, crumbs to follow, an unbroken winding thread, a siren song. He saw in Hannibal someone so alike and feeling and so alone. But to go the way of someone like Tobias? Desperate. Craving. Fauning. Crawling. Better to hold off. To make Hannibal do all the work. To reckon it was his play. Will enjoys the puns.

As he stands on the beach and looks up at the column of bodies, beautiful in its climb, a babel tower telling stories, he knows it's getting too close. He is. Too many breaks. And broken lives end stitched and set badly. He needs to give Hannibal another push. 

…………………..

Will lets himself fall back against the ladder and lets it hold him. Hannibal finishes too close to him. But not close enough. Will can taste his sharp spike in desire in the air. Feels Hannibal's eyes to his throat as he swallows. His shirt without a collar, framed by an old loose waistcoat that hardly deserves the name. The buttons open. Pushed aside. With a pulse beating and a flush blooming. Making himself look like a fit repast. He can almost feel Hannibal throb and rut against him. Desperate. Not quite desperate enough. 

Yet.

When Hannibal finally does have Will against this ladder it's Hannibal who almost cries from the relief. Thrusting and pushing and claiming and burning for release. Will holding the ladder for support, resting his head against the upright, spreading his legs wider, canting his pelvis back and up. Urging Hannibal quietly on.

“Please Hannibal. Please”

Hannibal wild in the feral snap of his hips wanting to fill, wanting to own, wanting to possess. Dominate. Spoil. When he comes Hannibal cries and the wet of his tears and his come leaking soothe something in Will. 

………………….

When he spits up Abigail’s ear. It's such a relief. Now they'll treat him. Now Hannibal will be utterly tied to him. He makes the call. And Hannibal's hands linger over him as he wraps him in a blanket. Hannibal’s eyes full of grief. Hannibal. Hannibal. Hannibal.

God he wants him every way. They're not there yet. Hannibal isn't. He isn't burning.

Yet.

………………….

In the hospital they tell him it's encephalitis. And he looks at everyone as though he has the perfect excuse to say did you not know my brain was on fire? How many of you have at least some medical knowledge. God. I am surrounded by fools. 

He's known. From maybe one week after his first symptoms. That's what google is for. That's why you visit your physician for a check. That’s why you don't rely on sound healthcare advice from the serial killer masquerading as your therapist you already want to win. To keep. To own.

That's why if you have someone in front of you who is as close to perfect as you'll allow exists then you have to plan it right. If part of their psychosis is always being the one who comes out on top. You don't make any mistakes.

Though there are sacrifices.

…………………..

Beverley.

……………………

And Alana. In a way. Though at first glance that's a complication too. Until Will sits and looks at his feelings about it.

“Hello Dr Lecter”

Oh Hannibal? I'm still paying attention. I haven't forgotten I promise you. But I won't share. I won't share you with anyone. Do you understand? You'll be in a position to kill someone you love and you'll think you don't have any choice.

“Hello Will”

…………………….

 

Will stands in the waiting room. He'd thought about the blue shirt. The one that makes him look impossible. Hannibal adores that shirt. Tied his wrists to the bed in Wolf Trap using the sleeves. Used it another time to mop up come and blood from a fucking and bite that got further out of hand than usual, Will bleeding down his chest Hannibal lapping and then blotting and then almost a spark of worry he could have gone too far. Hannibal had worn it round the house once or twice , slightly too small in a way that forced Will to wrestle it back from him. Lost a button once. Will had masturbated into that shirt after Hannibal had gone home whilst it still smelled of him.

Instead he's wearing a sort of salmon coloured shirt. The colour of the meat in the last dish they ate together. He's done something with his hair that will make Hannibal desperate to push it out of his eyes, put his hands through it, re-arrange it, hold it tight, pull. It will put him in mind of the times he's held Will’s head tight and fucked long and smooth into the warm cave of Will’s throat and Will moaned and opened for him. The aggression of it. The loss of control he watched Hannibal struggle with and then give in to.

He remembers too lying on Hannibal's bed against some sheets this colour and them trying to bring Will off without touching his cock. He remembers the utter ache. The taught angle. Hannibal trying everything in his not inconsiderable arsenal of desire. He remembers squirming and writhing and Hannibal watching him try for friction against those sheets as if it could be enough. He remembers arching and gasping. He remembers kisses so melting he'd thought them lost between them. 

He remembers the oiled fingers working in his arse, against his prostate, ignoring it, rubbing fleeting touches. He remembers the sucking, biting, teasing nipple licks. He remembers lying there watching Hannibal jerk himself off, coming over Will’s chest and face with such focus and deliberate sparking intent. He remembers Hannibal fucking him face down and face to face on those sheets. He remembers fucking Hannibal held down by the neck, arse covered by Will, up on his spread apart knees. Hannibal's hands tied behind his back, a willing sacrifice. He remembers the tender ache of both of them. Feeling with each other through a path of liquid fire. Whispered declarings of love against a salmon backdrop. He'd only come when Hannibal had breathed across his cock hallowing his name.

He's not wearing his jacket. It's over his arm instead. He'd arrived once and had barely got in the door before Hannibal had pulled his jacket down and kept his arms immobile and trapped whilst he sunk to his knees and sucked Will down as though this was was as essential as air and breath and food in his belly giving him life. They'd been supposed to go to a gallery. Instead the pale blue velvet couch had had to be sent for re-upholstering. Will had come three times that night. Hannibal twice. They'd both been surprised and sated by more than just lust asked and answered. 

When Hannibal finally opens the door Will can see that none of these things have been forgotten. None of them unrecognised in how he presents. None of them put aside by the affair with Alana. Though to Will the taste is not exactly bitter. When he has Hannibal again there'll be some repentance and regret. All to Will’s benefit. When Hannibal is sorry he is a wonderful lover. And Will already can taste the apologies to come. 

“I've come to resume my therapy”

…………………………….

When Hannibal opens the door and sees Will standing there. Everything comes flooding back. A heady rush. The only person who truly met him and understood. Who not just understood but withstood. Who did not bend or break. Everything. Everything. 

……………………………

Clark Ingram.

Randall Tier.

Mason Verger.

And the heady rush of belonging and of joint enterprise. Standing in Will’s living room Hannibal is so consumed by longing and love he lets himself fall. A little further than before. Whilst Mason is still twitching and dripping Will takes him to the room next door. To the bed. Where he lets Hannibal play the ready acolyte and worship. 

Hannibal has never had such total integration with someone else, it's a heady drug. An opiate. Snarky still, but intent on chasing his own pleasure in the dark as Hannibal has ever been. And when that pleasure involves keeping Hannibal on the edge, simmering, struggling. Hannibal can only pray they both survive it. He's not sure he could survive Will’s loss or absence now.

……………………………..

When Hannibal looks between them at the table he already knows which of them he'll save. Wants to keep. What he wouldn't do to have Will Graham always. And all the time Will is pulling him in. Pulling him in. Pulling him. Alana isn't stupid, so she believes, she can see the hours counting down even if she can't see what's in them. She feels her naivety ripped away over several shredded days,

“How was my funeral?”

She is utterly sick and angry. And goes to a range and practices with the gun Will gave her. Another play. 

…………

So Alana survived. Well. Unexpected but not impossible. A future calculation then. Abigail didn't. Well Will had warned him. Or Bedelia had. And hell if he hadn't gutted Will too. Hannibal wonders which of them hurts more from it.

..........

Sometimes Will can't help but wonder if Hannibal isn't as clever as everybody thinks. He’ll have to take the long way round then. Perhaps this is Hannibal’s way of testing out the game? Trying to find out which one he's playing. Will can make a toast to that. And he's honest about it

“Because he was my friend and I wanted him to run and I wanted to run away with him”

He doesn't fondly add, “idiot. He's such a sentimental fool. Can't see past me. Round me. Beyond me. Can't see beyond the end of his own love.” But if course he thinks it.

But why make things easier on him? Hannibal will be full of regret. When Will eventually shows up Hannibal will be so relieved and desperate and empty. Will shall be the one containing. Set a thief to catch one. Or a killer. 

Everyone assumed Hobbs was his first. That he felt so bad about Stammetts, or the woman that Bev shot. Or, whisper it still, Beverly. Matthew? Matthew always brings a smile to his face. He wanted something from Will that only Hannibal deserves. Only Hannibal has. A knowing off equality. Abel, the Judge, the bailiff, nearly Chilton, damn if Miriam hadn't been a better shot, what might have been or Jack less noble. Oh and Budge. That Hannibal killed for him. A perfect kind of courting gift.

Will had taken Hannibal back to Wolf Trap afterwards. He'd bathed and bandaged Hannibal's injuries. Whispered sweetly to him. Then spread him on the bed upstairs like some delicious feast.

Hannibal had been pliant and willing. So relieved that Will wasn't dead. And still with anger chasing thought all along his bones. Not considering that surely Will was a better shot than really they'd all worked out. He didn't kill Stammetts after all. Just winged him. Expertly. 

Will had brought the content of the closet next to Hannibal on the bed,

“Would you like to choose? Some of them are very like the ones you have. Silk, wool, some subtle mixes. Woven, knitted, twill, smooth. Some of them are rougher, some of them will tear, some of them have been scented. Some of them I've used before. Just with myself. You can taste me still on them.”

“They're beautiful”

“I like beautiful things. I just don't need the display”

“That isn't quite true is it?”

“Is this about me displaying you?”

“To your colleagues. My acquaintances and friends. Your students even. Elsewhere. People. Strangers or semi strangers.”

“Your patients”

“Franklyn?”

Will smiles. 

“Clever of you. Yes. I like displaying you. You’re doing better now.”

“Dressing to your taste?”

Will bends and sucks at Hannibal's cock, 

“You're all to my taste”

Faintly Hannibal manages,

“Please Will”

“Oh I know. It's been a difficult day. You sent him after me. You thought he'd killed me. It was a pretty thing you did. Just the right amount of restraint and ire. I could see Jack worrying at it but not wanting to believe it still. You are his friend.”

“Are you?”

“His friend or yours?”

“Either, both?”

“His? Well, I'd say we're friendly. I give a good simulacrum of it. Enough for Jack. He knows I'm not very sociable”

“And of mine”

“Oh Hannibal, I'm definitely yours.”

He lets that hang there. 

“I'd like you to choose. And after today, I want you to start wearing them. We’ll use all of them. Perhaps not all today. You are a little knocked about. But I want each one to be seeped in memories. Steeped in one or both of us. It means I'll know.”

“When you see me wearing one..”

“What we used it for. How we used it. How each or both of us were used”

“How many are there?”

“Over fifty. How many do you have? Something more I would assume?”

“Closer to a 100 I would say. If it's one of mine I'm wearing what would that say?”

“What do you think it would say?”

“That I'm waiting to write something new into it? For us to?”

“That's right. I'm not planning on just using them for restraints. Though that too of course”

Hannibal echoes,

“Of course”

“I know my knots. Fisherman. Boatman. And the rest”

“Of course”

“Have you been restrained”

“Only in the figurative sense”

“Would you like to be?”

“Would you be doing the restraining?”

“Yes”

“To what end?”

“Pleasure. Maybe a little pain. Maybe both. Together or apart”

“Does cruelty excite you Will?”

“Only the anticipation of it. The reality is usually more mundane. No. I'm more interested in the excesses of tenderness”

“The drawn out foreplay?”

“And reward. I'm good at the payoff Hannibal. You'll feel it for sure”

“Pleasure?”

“Liberation through desire”

“Not moksha then?”

“Better than. Moksha is but once. I'm offering a continuing encounter with desire and release”

“And outside of the bedroom?”

“What would you like?”

“For you to come to dinner with others, to come to social events, to let me in”

“And take me out? The bitchy snarly twitchy little man?”

“I love beautiful things too Will”

“Yes you do. Which is why you'll give me what I want even if I don't give you everything you want.”

Hannibal smiles and strokes a hand tenderly down his face,

“Yet.”

…………………

**Author's Note:**

> And we're still moving house! And not found a flat in London. This week I'll be staying in five different houses/flats. But I did get the academic paper I was collaborating on in last night. Along with managing the whole of the Elizabethan AU last week. Not all bad then. And I met NiaKantorka in London with two other fannibals, which was awesome. (I'm pretty shy but we managed to shout about tie porn in a posh London hotel over afternoon tea. Actually it might have been me shouting.)


End file.
